MY EXPERIENCE ON PASSCHENDALE RIDGE.

Before commencing to describe my day on "No Man's Land," I want to make apologies for my poor attempt, as I could never describe on paper the impression made on me by this visit to the place of one of the most terrible battles of the war. It is indeed quite impossible to picture anything so horrible as the utter devastation that has been wrought.

On Sunday, March 9th, 1919, we, a party of four, consisting of two "Wrens" and two chief petty officers, started out on a day's motoring through Belgium. We intended first of all to visit Lille, and for about twenty miles all went well. We passed through Thourout, which was terribly damaged, and then through the Menin Woods, although there are no woods left now, for all the trees are absolutely destroyed.

We then entered into "No Man's Land," and the car had very great difficulty in getting along. However, she struggled bravely through the mud until we came to Passchendale Ridge, and there she stuck hopelessly. We discovered at this point that we had taken the wrong road, and were miles from anywhere. At first the men insisted on struggling with the car alone, as there was so much mud, so we two girls went on an expedition among the dug-outs. Some of them were full of water, others were quite dry, but oh! So miserable and dreary-looking. There were skeletons of horses everywhere. We could scarcely move for fear of treading on bones, for the ground was absolutely full of them and for miles there was nothing but desolate country, with not even a tree left standing.

Crosses were to be seen everywhere - Belgians, Germans, and British buried together, some of them in the midst of water.

 Everything was so terribly weird that it made us both feel as though someone were following us all the time, although there was not a soul but ourselves for miles. The only company we had were the rats, which were running about all over the place.

When we returned to the car we found things very little improved since we left it, so the only thing to do was to take off our coats and help. We had to get duckboards and corrugated iron and raise each wheel out of the mud on to these. Then we had to push the car, but push as we would it refused to move an inch - we pushed it for four hours, but it was no use, and we had almost given up hope of moving it when we saw someone in the distance. When we eventually attracted his attention, we found that he was a Belgian, who very willingly came to our aid, and after a little more struggling we were at last successful in moving the car. We then had to push it for about a hundred yards, fixing each wheel on the duckboards as we went!

At last, about three o'clock in the afternoon, we once more had the car on solid ground. We were covered with thick clay mud, and could find no place in which to get a wash, except in a shell-hole, and you may guess the water was not very clear. As we washed we stirred up thick green slime, and we could see skeletons lying at the bottom.

After our wash we again resumed our journey, and although very muddy we were very thankful at not having to spend a night in that gruesome place with its terrible associations.

The next place we made for was Bruges. We spent half an hour sight-seeing there, and saw many interesting sights. One thing which we noticed particularly was the Cathedral steeple, which was so unusually high. There were six hundred and sixty steps to the top of it.

After having tea and brushing some of the mud off our clothes we started on our homeward journey. We passed ruins for miles, and noticed an encampment where we were informed British prisoners had been interned. We next passed through Blankenberge, and from there to Ostend. The road lay by the sea, and we could see the German batteries all along the coast. We arrived home in Ostend at about seven-thirty, after a day full of experiences that we shall remember as long as we live. The horrors we had seen so impressed us that we could not sleep, and we shall admire the brave men who have suffered so much even more than we did before.

WINIFRED SPENCER, W.R.N.S. Telephonist, Ostend